


catch the silver sunlight in your hands

by leadbitter



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bristol Rovers F.C., M/M, was meant to be a character study but then a plot sorta came outa nowhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: he’s exhausted (heavy hearts and tired eyes are becoming more common in this team).or, 2017 through the eyes of ollie clarke





	1. the absence of the broken-hearted

**Author's Note:**

> i started this ages ago and i still haven't finished it rip. i will finish this on holiday!!!
> 
> title from lyla- oasis

**_2nd January 2017_ **

**_Charlton, London_ **

**_vs Charlton Athletic_ **

 

Charlton is cold, and so is their game.

 

The tinny voice through the radio shouts in delight on the twelfth minute because _Easter twists past the defender, he’s charging towards the goal, and- yes! He’s past the keeper! Is he going to seal it? Yes he is! Jermaine Easter! Scores for Bristol Rovers!_

 

You grin from from where you’re sat on the floor beside your bed, heart beating loudly, because for a full thirty minutes, you think that they _might_ just do this. You’re not playing, laying at home the whole day (you don’t quite have the heart to drive through London traffic for a potential defeat), refreshing Rovers twitter page and tuning in the radio that you only use when you’re not in the squad. Despite popular belief, you’re usually not bitter when you’re not picked for the team. You are not naive, not vain enough to hold the belief that you are the best choice in midfield.

 

Arrogance, you insist, will not be your downfall.

 

 The bed creaks as you slump back. Forty one minutes in, just before half-time, and Josh Magennis equalises from a well-placed header. Your stomach sinks, twists deep. You hate to admit it, but you’ve seen this story before. This Bristol Rovers tragedy, that buries you in a rubble of mistakes and, as you try to scramble out, you let the defence break apart.

 

You’re proved right five minutes into the second half. The balls falls to Magennis again, and he finishes it with a swift jut of the head.

 

 _Is that all you can do?_ You mutter spitefully, clicking off of twitter and turning off the radio with a shaky hand.

  
  
  
  


You check the score an hour after you know the game must have finished. In some way, you’re not surprised to see the bold _4-1_ on BBC Sport. It was the Bristol Rovers way, you suppose: win at home and lose away and never break that form. Still, it hurts, so much so that you lie under your duvet at 7 o’clock, the curtains shut tight, a headache growing behind your eyes, and stay that way for god knows how long.

 

You laugh quietly, as soon as you realise just exactly what you’re doing. You’re not sure if anyone else does this: feel so disgustingly guilty at a loss you weren’t even there to play in, as if

you would have had an impact, as if you matter to the team form.

 

The sheets surrounding you suddenly feel tight and you push them out and sit up in an attempt to not feel so suffocated. It’s in vain really, but from the angle you’re at, you can see your phone lying on the floor, still as it was when you threw it. It’s ringing silently, and through blurry eyes, you can make out Billy’s name on the screen.

 

You half scramble, half leap out of bed, guilty that you forgot that, _of course,_ Billy would call you.

 

You slide your finger across the screen to accept the call, and let out a sigh when Billy’s voice rings through the phone.

 

“Fuck.” He breathes, too tired to sound angry.

 

“S’alright,” You murmur softly. “Doesn’t matter Bill. Doesn’t matter.”

 

You’re not sure when these calls stopped being just _calls,_ and started being a _thing._ You think that maybe you started it, after the 4-0 defeat at Millwall, when you were on the bench the entire game, and Billy wasn’t there at all. You can’t even remember why he wasn’t there, but you do remember phoning him from the back of the team coach on the journey home, the rows surrounding you empty, whispering down the phone and him mumbling back, quiet and loving.

 

These days, it’s usually him calling you, because he’s becoming ever more crucial and you’re busy getting match bans from too many bookings, because he’s Billy Bodin and you’re Ollie Clarke.

 

“It’s not though, is it?” Billy insists. “It’s not Ol.”

 

He’s exhausted (heavy hearts and tired eyes are becoming more common in this team) and you’re not quite sure what to say, because this is _Billy Bodin._ Billy Bodin, who is the second top goal scorer. Billy Bodin, who can turn a whole game around with a flick of his left foot. Billy Bodin, who everyone loves.

 

You’re not sure that you can comfort him in the way that he wants, that he needs, but you can goddamn try.

 

“Bill, Bill,” You stumble over his name, breathy and barely loud enough to hear. “Listen Billy, are you home yet?”

 

He doesn’t answer straight away, so you assume he hasn’t heard you. As you start to ask again, he says: “Yeah.” Then “Come over. Please.”

 

You were tripping over your shoes, grabbing for your car keys and slipping out your front door, as soon as the words leave his mouth.

  
  
  


**_7th January 2017_ **

**_Horfield, Bristol_ **

**_vs  Northampton Town_ **

 

Most of the team is spends the time between Charlton and Northampton reeling from the loss, which you think isn’t exactly logical, because it was mid-week and away, but then again, you weren’t playing.

 

By the time Saturday rolls around, everyone is debatably revitalised, bouncing around the changing room before warm ups and Darrell’s told you that you are starting. Northampton are mid-table and soft, and you secretly think it’ll be an easy win.

 

The team’s buzzing ( _Hiram’s back, Hiram’s back, fucking O’Toole),_ Matty keeps nudging you in the back and turning around when you try and catch him out, Manse’s poking the side of Locks face, yelling _i can see you now_ for some strange reason and everyone’s laughing because it’s just _funny_ and you can’t explain it. It’s home, in the most sappy sense of the word. You’ve been here for as long as you can remember, even if it wasn’t always in blue and white.

  
  
  


Mangotsfield was nice. Simple as that. You played fifteen times and scored three goals, the stands dotted with kids from the secondary down the road and middle aged men just wanting to watch football. You know as much as anyone else that most of them were Rovers supporters; it’s a village just off north-east Bristol, what did you expect. It was full of local lads and you actually made friends there, something Billy still finds hilarious. And if the maroon and sky blue kits, and the chants ( _Mangos! Mangos!)_ weren’t quite what you wanted, you didn’t make a fuss.

  
  
  
  


The lads take turns in hugging Hiram in the tunnel before kick off, even if he had only left seven days ago. His stretched smile melts all of you, and he laughs along with you.

 

O’Toole is pointedly ignored by those who knew him (You, Browner, Ellis, Locks, Macca), and given confused looks by those who didn’t. You don’t want to bother trying to explain (in all honestly, you’re not sure if you can), and there’s no doubt that none of the others do either.

 

You brush past him as you walk out and he opens his mouth to say something, but clearly thinks better of it. _Goodnight Irene_ is as loud as it at any match, blue waves screaming over the music. You think that no feeling is better than this, when you jog to your place, just in front of the Thatchers End, chanting about boys in blue and the smell of gas.

 

The away end might as well be shaking in their boots, how quiet they are. Being on someone else’s territory, you suppose, is more intimidating than the football game itself.

  
  
  
  


Billy scores in the eighth minute and it’s such a _Billy Bodin_ goal that Northampton shrink away as soon as it hits the top right corner. Manse calls Billy ‘the ankle breaker’ and for good reason too; he twists through the defenders like it’s easy.

 

Then it’s:

 

Bodin to James Clarke, running down the wing, knocks it towards the goal and Harrison finishes it easily, simple. It’s such a clinical tap-in that you would have been completely safe with holding a 2-nil lead for the rest of the game.

 

But this is Bristol Rovers and you don’t take the easy way out. Ellis scores again at twenty one minutes and then at twenty four, and you’re surprised he hasn’t jumped into the stands yet from sheer elation. You can hear him from halfway across the pitch, because he’s just got a hatrick in seven minutes and fucking _hell,_ if that’s not all you could ever want.

  
  
  
  


5-0 at full time and you’re not sure if it could get any better. The changing room is achingly loud and you know that an ibuprofen is going to be needed later, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

 

“Fuck off Danny!” is followed by the crack of a towel, and you don’t need to look round to know how much James is wanting to kill him. Billy is digging his head into your shoulder, shaking with laughter (maybe at Danny’s antics, maybe at the state of Macca’s kit). You wrap your arm around his neck and grin widely, and it no doubt looks ridiculous, because you’re slim and short, and he’s just- not. But you’re hardly going to just stand there awkwardly, are you?

  
  
  
  


Billy comes back to your’s: half because it’s about five minutes closer, and half because he seems to likes your house more than his own, for reasons you can never figure out.

 

You take a tablet (as predicted) and make you both a coffee. As the kettle boils, you pull two mugs out of the cupboard (blue stripes for you, and the Swindon crest for him because no matter how much he claims to not give a shit about his hometown, his home _team,_ you bought it anyway and he’s never complained) and look over at Billy.

 

He’s kicked off his shoes, shoved on one the hoodies he left here last time, propped a pillow under his back and stretched himself across the sofa. He looks so at home, that it pulls at your heart because you never thought you’d have- whatever _this_ is.

 

Billy rolls onto his back and catches your eye. “Come on Clarkey,” He says, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Hurry up and make those coffees. Geordie Shore’s on!”

  
  
  
  


Eight hours later you wake up with a crick in your neck and your legs twined with Billy’s. You bring your hand up to run through his hair. He mumbles something and you press a kiss to his cheek bone, because that’s about as far you can reach.

  
  
  


**_14th January 2017_ **

**_Fleetwood, Lancashire_ **

**_vs Fleetwood Town_ **

  


Fleetwood is nice, you suppose. It has all the charm of a coastal town, except it’s less Newquay and more Weston-Super-Mare. The beach looks more mud than sand, and the sky seems fixed permanently grey. You suppose it’s a bit like home, Portishead: land of dreams and all that.

 

“Don’t you think Locks? Locks? You listening to me? Gaffs! Is Locks listening to me?” You’re speaking too loud and leaning into the seats in front in attempts to speak to Locks.

 

Rory peers back at you. “Think he’s asleep Ollie. Sorry ‘bout that.” He talks with an Irish lilt, and it relaxes you instantly. Rory’s not playing, so you’re pretty sure he’s just come along for a jolly, if nothing else.

 

You flop back against your seat and shut your eyes. Fleetwood will play a tough game and you know that as much as everyone else, but most of you are still riding out the euphoric high that was the Northampton game and you’re not entirely certain that you can pull a decent result out of this. You’re predicting a draw, at _best_ . Of course, you’ll still play your top game, because that’s what you have to do, that’s what you _need_ to do.

 

“Oi Clarkey!” You open your eyes and look at Billy, your head still resting against the back of the seat, lazy.

 

“Yeah?” You mumble back.

 

“Don’t fall asleep now. We’re nearly there.” He ruffles his hand through your hair for effect, but if anything, it makes you feel even more sleepy.

 

“But Locks is sleeping!” You protest half-heartedly, knowing full well that you will lose this argument. That’s just the way it goes with you two.

 

“He’s waking up now anyway, aren’t you Locks?” He kicks the back of the seat and you can hear Locks mumbling “What? Yeah, yeah, I’m up, I’m up.”

 

You roll your eyes but still place your hand over his wrist.

  
  
  
  


Highbury is like home, but covered in red, and there is a stand full of gasheads waiting for them at the end of the pitch. You can hear them singing from the tunnel, you’re still not quite sure how they manage to be so loud even in a place where they are sorely outnumbered. Still, you stand in the tunnel, Ellis behind you, Macca in front, surrounded by the yellow away kits, and the red and white of Fleetwood, a formidable force.

  
  
  
  


The ball smashes past Puddy for the second time and your head is in your hands. It hurts when the Fleetwood fans raise in eerie harmony, shaking their fists and singing like a whole nation.

 

Still, you sit up. Then you stand up, head high and making eye contact with everyone you pass. You jog back into position, patting Locks’ shoulder as you pass him.

 

This is not how you will fall.

  
  
  
  


It’s a stunner of a goal. How could Billy produce anything that wasn’t? Taken on his right foot and smashed into the top right corner. You can see the gasheads through the net, and they’re shouting in blue and white, jumping and smiling. But they aren’t getting their hopes up. This you can see in the tired crease around their eyes and slump of their shoulders; they know this club like the back of their hand and it would be naive to think that you could come back from this, sprinting fast and hitting two more goals past their keeper.

  
  
  
  


They’re right, of course, because they always are. 82’ on the clock and David Ball whips the shot past Puddy into the bottom right. Once again, the Fleetwood fans are up and down, chanting unrecognisable things at their players and having the time of their life. It’s not the game you predicted, but the game you should have _expected._ It was undoubtedly arrogant to believe that they could nick a point from a club like this, a match like this. You’re supposed to be confident, you know this at least, but you’re also supposed to be realistic, honest. Though maybe false self-assurance is not the same as lying. That is what you tell yourself.

  
  
  
  


This is how it goes:

 

Billy is last into the changing room; he’s on press duty.

 

Macca whacks Locks round the head for getting booked.

 

Locks points out that Linesy too, had gotten booked.

 

He gets hit as well.

 

The room isn’t full of self-pity, because that isn’t what Bristol Rovers do.

 

The room isn’t full of denial, because that isn’t what Bristol Rovers do.

 

Instead, it is acknowledgement.

 

It is a grudging acceptance.

  
  
  
  


Billy is next to you on the coach back to Bristol, as usual. Lines is two rows in front of you, Matty and Ellis are three rows behind. You prop your head on his shoulder and he doesn’t flinch, leans into the touch. You know that losses cost, and that you need to bounce back next Saturday. You also know that Walsall will never give in to them, won’t let them take possession.

 

“Stop thinking,” Billy whispers into your hair, so you do.

 

You sleep against each other for four and a half hours on the coach, training jackets as pillows, then for another six hours in Billy’s bed, thick sheets and the soft light of the bedside lamp

illuminating the nothingness.

  
  
  


**_21st January 2017_ **

**_Walsall, West Midlands_ **

**_vs Walsall_ **

  
  


3-1 at full time, and you stand on bruised legs and aching knees, clutching a fresh broken heart, because healing is your only option.

  
  
  


**_28th January 2017_ **

**_Horfield, Bristol_ **

**_vs Swindon Town_ **

  
  


It’s a game you think will be easy, or you at least hope it will. 2 losses in a row is doing nothing for the table position, and this is a crucial three points at stake.

 

Also, it’s a derby.

 

The crowds are all humming the same tune of trouble, and the police in the ground, and the ones set up along Filton Avenue, are no doubt expecting to be called upon at some point.

 

The rivalry is hardly the Bristol Derby. Not even close, really. Even you know this, and you’ve never even played against City; you only have to listen to the fans at any match to see just how far the animosity runs.

 

But this is still a derby, a pure English derby, full of chants and violence and an early kickoff. It’s a game you need to win.

  
  
  
  


Billy is rushing around the changing room like a maniac, and you know exactly why. This is _Swindon_. All it takes is a dreary town in North Wiltshire and an old football club, memories attached, for Billy to lose his pre-game focus. He claims it all means no much to him, and maybe it truly doesn’t, but his hands are shaking (with excitement or nerves you’ll never know) and his hair has been thrown in a whirlwind, the previously slick look ruffled roughly.

 

“Bill mate, _chill!_ ” James yells across the room, pulling on his shirt. “Need you on top form, innit.”

 

He glances his up, startled. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.”

  
  
  
  


It’s not just magic; it’s Billy Bodin. It is a completely different class, and not for the first time, you think he is too good for this club. You love Rovers with everything you’ve got, but it’ll never be the best offer out there, not really. It kills to admit because you desperately want him to stay, more than anything. But when the ball bounces off his head, he takes it on his left foot and rebounds it in off the post. That’s when you know.

  
  
  


The whistle blows, screeches through the air. The sky is still bright, sun coming down in thick rays, and the air is icy. It feels like victory.

  
  
  


Billy joins the changing room last, like most days, and at least seven people slap him on the back. There is a chorus of _Good one, Bill_ and _You fucking legend!_ (the latter is mainly just Browner) and then they turn back to their conversations. Incessant chatter fills the empty space. You catch snippets of it. Ellis’s _You prick, Tayls_ and the following thump over the head from Matty, and _We going your’s or mine?_

 

(You’re still not sure if _that_ is a thing yet, but if it is, you owe Manse a tenner and Leads seven pounds fifty, because apparently betting pools are still a thing people do.)

 

Leads is still bantering off James about kicking into the stands _four times today, mate you have problems_. You quietly think that it wasn’t that many, but you don’t want to start anything with Leads because he’s hard as fuck and from Newcastle.

  
  
  
  


The changing room empties out until only you, Billy and Rory are left lingering. Eventually, Rory shoves his feet into a pair of trainers, slings his kit bag over his shoulder, and pushes through the door, yelling back _see you in a bit!_

 

Billy looks up from his bag and grins at you, hair damp and curling, bright white teeth exposed.

 

You are on opposite sides of the room.

 

You put down the studs you’ve been re-lacing; smirk back and say, “Fucking good goal that was.”

 

He rolls his eyes, but crosses the room while muttering, “Shut the fuck up and kiss me, you mug.”

 

You do and it’s clumsy because you’ve only got one shoe on and Billy somehow still has no shirt on. He grips the back of your neck and you reach up to tangle your hand in his drying hair. It doesn’t really have any intentions behind it, but you think _maybe_ -

 

Until the door bangs open and you break apart just as Darrell comes through. You pick up your boots and shove them into you bag on top of your shorts, in a vague attempt to look busy.

 

“What are you two still doing ‘ere?” He looks confusedly between them. “Go home. Sleep all of tomorrow and be ready for Monday training. Can’t have you lot dozing off, can we?”

 

Even though you think it was probably a rhetorical question, Billy mumbles out a, “Yeah boss.” and wanders out of the room. When he put a shirt and a hoodie on, you don’t know, but you do know that he is going to be waiting by his car, sat inside or on the bonnet, like he always does.

  
  
  
  


You’re not wrong, as you walk out of the ground, but you are not right.

 

Billy is leant against a lamp post, facing away from you, holding a phone to his ear.

 

He’s tapping his foot against the floor, and saying, “Yeah Gos, yeah it was. Good win for you.”

 

He pauses, then huffs out a laugh. The orange glow of the street light washes over his silhouette. “Mate, why would I go drinks with you, when I’m going home with Ollie? Get it sorted lad.”

 

It’s Jake Gosling, and 5 months ago, this would’ve made you ridiculously jealous. It’s hardly a secret what he and Billy used to be, before the loans, before _you._ You’re willing to admit, even just for the sake of your mental health, that some part of you is still overbearingly insecure about the whole thing.

 

Gosling has no problem with you, not even close; he and Billy ended mutually, because of Newport and Cambridge and Forest Green, _not_ because _Ollie Clarke_ had the nerve to ask Billy to drinks _once_ with _three other people,_ no matter what Ellis fucking Harrison likes to say. You know for a fact that they’re still friends; they play fucking golf with each other every now and again. When Billy isn’t with you, he’s with Gosling, watching football or some other random activity. It’s hardly like you’ve created some massive rift between the two of them.

 

And, realistically, you have no problem with him; you were, and are, actually really good mates. Also, from the combined knowledge of Billy’s phone calls, James’ borderline stalking (he likes to think he’s some kind of father figure to you, and therefore has to keep up to date with your life), and Gosling’s instagram story, you’re pretty sure he’s found himself a new lad at Forest Green anyway.

  
  
  
  


The drive to Billy’s is quiet, but not tense. Music filters out through the radio, the lanes windy in the dark, and you take a minute to wonder why Billy didn’t go down the motorway, like he usually does when it’s late and after a match. You know for a fact that he hates the lanes with a passion, even more so when he can barely see 3 meters ahead of himself.

 

It’s a mystery, but not one you can really be bothered to question when your vision is blurry with sleepiness, and your brain can barely comprehend that the music is fading off into adverts.

 

You lean back against the headrest, and close your eyes, so that the pale glow from the dashboard casts shadows across your cheekbones and all you can see is darkness.

  
  
  
  


Billy is shaking you awake not even ten minutes later, gently and whispering _C’mon Clarkey, we’re home now._

 

You’re so out of it that you barely register the _we’re home_ , like this is now _yours_ as well _._

  
  
  
  


You think, sometimes, that this was the best thing to happen to you.

  
  
  


**_31st January 2017_ **

**_BREAKING: Matty Taylor makes the move across the city_ **

  
  


It is heartbreak and anger and sheer disbelief, and the fact that he must’ve known for weeks. It is Ellis not answering your texts and Billy knocking on your door at 9 o’clock at night in the rain. His face is wet and you don’t know if it is the weather or rage. It’s the way your heart burns with sheer anxiety as you lie under a thick duvet wrapped in Billy’s warm arms. It is crying into each others t-shirt, and ignoring the dampness in the morning over burnt toast and orange juice.

 

( _home-home-home-home-)_

 

It is losing your top goal scorer, the life and soul of the club, and _carrying on_ because if there is one thing Bristol Rovers doesn’t do, it is give up.

  
  
  


**_4th February 2017_ **

**_Rochdale, Greater Manchester_ **

**_vs Rochdale_ **

  
  


It’s you, and it’s them.

 

It’s blue and white hidden under yellow kits.

 

It’s the first game without him.

 

It’s not losing away.

 

It’s a point.

 

It’s the first since October.

 

It’s not a win, but it’s not a loss, and you celebrate in the changing rooms.

 

It’s blue.

  
  
  


**_11th February 2017_ **

**_Horfield, Bristol_ **

**_vs  Bradford City_ **

  
  
  


Bradford aren’t easy guests. They are daunting in claret and amber, five places above in the league. It’s hard, and Billy isn’t there with you.

 

You talk to Lumley until he has to start warm ups, and you realise just how little you’ve _really_ spoken to him since he arrived on loan. He’s nice, in a shy in real life, but aggressive on the pitch kind of way, and you absentmindedly hope he gets a permanent contract in the summer, if just so you can get to know him better.

  
  
  
  


Lines gets a goal in the 15th minute, and it’s _good._

 

It’s hitting the post and bouncing in, and the Thatchers End in full voice. _Chrissy Lines, he’s one of our own._

 

If anyone deserves that chant, it’s the Filton boy himself.

  
  
  
  


It’s not the best game in the world, but it’s not a loss. You think that Lumley is the best goalkeeper the club has had all season; you like Puddy, but he relies too much on the back four, and Roos, well, he’s best not even talking about.

 

It’s a game hardly worth describing, because it’s not _appalling,_ but it’s not _incredible._

 

It’s all you can really say.

  
  
  


**_14th February 2017_ **

**_Horfield, Bristol_ **

**_vs Sheffield United_ **

  
  


It’s a Tuesday night, it’s freezing cold, and you just want it all to end.

  
  
  


0-0 at full time, and you’re surprised you haven’t lost your fingers to frostbite yet. It’s a result that should’ve been better, but couldn’t have been. (Sheffield are league leaders for a reason.)

  
  
  


**_18th February 2017_ **

**_Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent_ **

**_vs Port Vale_ **

  
  


Port Vale are lingering just clear of the relegation zone, and you’re uncertain to whether that makes it easier or harder. They are fighting for the life, because that is what you have to do when you’re placed like that.

 

You remember 2014. You remember celebrations at Wycombe and the fans thinking you were safe for another season. You remember the Mansfield game and videos of City fans chanting _One team in Bristol!_ away at Crawley and the pure shit that came with it. You remember the summer following relegation and Darrell Clarke determined to bring this club up after John Ward’s failures. You remember flying high in the Conference and the 7-0 thrashing of Alfreton on the last day of the season and only just missing out out on automatics. You remember play-offs and Wembley and a flood of 30,000 fans in blue and white. It was the team wanting to recreate 2007 and Richard Walker and Sammy Igoe. That didn’t happen, but Lee Mansell’s final penalty did, and it was mania.

 

So you know what Port Vale will be willing to do to survive, because it was exactly what you were doing two years ago.

  
  
  
  
  


The team goes like this: Lumley in goal; Partington, Lockyer, Sweeney and Harris at the back; Bodin, O.Clarke, Lines and Sinclair in midfield; Harrison and Gaffney up front. On the bench is Brown, Mansell, Montaño, Moore, Puddy, James and Burn.

 

It’s a solid team and you’re sure of that. The back four is strong, stronger than it’s been for months. That’s been the problem; you know it and the gaffer knows it. Goals have been flying through, and that was fine, before, because you were hitting back twice as many, but then Matty left and you’re stuck with no reliable goalscorer.

 

It’s harsh, because all you want to do is get up front, and add to the goal tally, not for you, but for the club.

 

It’s harsh, because you know that’s what everyone wants to do.

 

It’s harsh, because it’s not that no one _wants_ to, it’s that no one _can._

  
  
  
  


There is an impressive stand of Rovers fans behind the goal, but then, when isn’t there?

 

They are all you can hear in the warm up; they sing _in your dreams_ like it’s the only thing that matters, and to them, in that moment, it probably is.

 

You’ve said it before, but they make the club. It’s takes a special brand of patience to support Bristol Rovers Football Club. They rallied around this team that they love so much, all through this season, and League Two. Even in the Conference, after the darkest day in Rovers history, they sold out away ends and pushed you to where you belonged, back in the football league. It was them cheering you into to the tunnel at full time to _Glad All Over,_ and staggering out onto Filton Avenue, grinning, and humming softly along to _Tote End Boys._

 

It is always _them_.

  
  
  
  


Port Vale take the lead through _you._ Well, Bob Harris actually, but it’s an own goal all the same. It was an attempted clearance gone wrong, and Lumley wasn’t expecting Harris to kick a ball back like that. It’s brutal, but you keep going.

 

The Vale supporters take the opportunity to use the brief silence from the away end to chant _You’re not singing anymore._

 

But Rovers fans aren’t just fans, they’re _Gasheads_ , and they belt out, _You only sing when you’re winning,_ followed by the loudest _We always follow the boys in blue (and white)_ of the match.

 

It’s the lads who grew up with this, and the girls who grew up with this, and the elders and the youngens and the mid-forties, who grew up with _this,_ singing for blue quarters and gasworks in Eastville, for Twerton Park and all those years out of Bristol, for the man who saved this club- _We are Rovers, Darrell is our king-_ and all of those that ruined it.

 

It’s for the team on a foreign pitch, playing in yellow, that they trust.

  
  
  
  


It’s another beauty from Billy that saves the game: he’s at least 20 yards out when he latches onto Monty’s pass and twists forwards just inside the penalty box. He drills it straight into the top left and Fasan has no chance.

 

It’s Billy Bodin once more, making sure that you don’t come out of this game without a point. The roar from the supporters makes your skin tingle like a knife cut, and they’re off again with the singing.

  
  
  
  


It was a sloppy game. You gave the ball away far too easily, didn’t control it when you had it for more than five seconds. It was an off day, but this is the fourth draw in a row, and you’re starting to think that it’s more than that, that these ‘off days’ will turn into an opportunity for Darrell to reshuffle the squad.

 

The _Bristol Post_ is already saying it, but then again, they’ll say anything. You’ll take them seriously when their website stops freezing, and starts working properly.

  
  
  
  


Locks claps you on the back as he catches up to you. “Played well, Ol.” He says.

 

You raise an eyebrow. “We fucking drew Locks.”

 

“Yeah, but did we lose?” He replies, ever the optimist. “Did we?”

 

You just sigh, and step up into the coach.

  
  
  
  


You arrive in Bristol, and you instantly feel safe. There is something about the ambulances saying _South West_ instead of _West Midlands_ , and the road signs reading familiar places, that is ridiculously comforting.

 

When you know it’s the West Country, you know you’re home.

  
  
  
  


**_25th February 2017_ **

**_Horfield, Bristol_ **

**_vs Scunthorpe United_ **

  
  


They have a shot twelve seconds into the game, and it’s one of those _this is going in_ moments.

 

But it doesn’t, because Lumley’s there punching the ball away before it can even register in your brain. James picks out the rebounding ball, knocks it off to you, and you’re running down the left wing.

  
  
  
  


It’s Linesy taking the corner, as usual, because he’s magic when it comes down to it. You don’t even think about it when it comes to your head, and you jut towards the goal instinctively. You’re not expecting it to go in, but it does and you sprint off across the damp grass. Blue and white engulfs you as Linesy and Sweeney join in behind you.

 

This is the best feeling, you think, as the Thatchers End chants your name in unison. _Goodnight Irene_ threatens to break out, and she does, once again; pure passion and child-like joy.

 

That was you, nine years ago, getting a lift from one of your mate’s dad, four of you squished into a tiny Nissan. Cheering for every Rickie Lambert goal, which was often, and loving every second of it.

  
  
  
  


The exact moment the ball leaves Ellis’s foot, you know you are in trouble. It is the most ridiculous pass of the game, and why he did it is a complete mystery. Locks sprints towards the fast rolling ball along with a Scunthorpe player in a desperate attempt to keep the ball out of net. Lumley is already off his line, and there isn’t time or reason for him to get back on it.

 

It was in vain, because the ball goes in maddingly casually and Locks gets the last toe to it. He looks so fucking enraged, that you’re selfishly glad that you’re not the one who laid off that ball. It’s another own goal, and another draw, and it’s starting to really piss you off. You’re surprised you don’t get booked because of some of those tackles you make in the last 20 minutes (it would hardly be news).

  
  
  
  


Billy’s not waiting in the car park when you leave the ground.

 

In fact, you can’t remember seeing him at all after full time.

 

 _It’s fine,_ you think. _He’s probably still inside._

 

But when you scan the car park, his car is nowhere to be seen, which is funny because that means he’s left without you. You blink, once, and then lean back against the nearest lamp post. Your knees ache and your head hurts and all you want is to lie down in bed with Billy, but now you can’t even get back to your own house because Billy gave you a lift this morning, and you live a good hour and a half walk away.

 

It’s a head-fuck, you don’t know what you’ve done (because it’s always you that manages to fuck up) and you’re going have to ask one of the other boys for a lift home.

 

Locks is out of the question, because as nice as he is, he’s still absolutely fuming.

 

Ellis will resign himself to locking his bedroom door and drowning his sorrows in beer (no hard liquor because he’s cheap) until 5 in the morning, so he won’t do.

 

You could ask James or Luke, but they’d probably pity you, and invite themselves in for a hot chocolate and a long ‘chat’ about ‘feelings’.

 

Eventually you give up, and close your eyes, let the cool air of the night refresh you.

  
  
  
  


You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, it can’t be longer than five minutes, ten at a stretch, but you hear footsteps steadily approaching.

 

“You alright there Ollie?” A concerned voice asks from somewhere in front of you. It’s soft, but for a moment, just briefly, you think, no, _hope_ , that it’s Billy.

 

It’s not though, because Billy’s light and Wiltshire, and this is deep and Essex.

 

You slowly open your eyes. “Oh,” and it’s Joe Lumley.

 

“What’re you still doing here?” Lumley- _Joe_ asks, walking closer to you and leaning on the closest car. “Thought yous were getting a lift with Bill.”

 

You look down, half embarrassed, half exhausted. “Yeah,” You reply finally. “So did I.”

 

He looks surprised. “Oh,” He fiddles with the sleeve of his training jacket. “How you getting home then?”

 

“I- I dunno.” You mumble. “Maybe call one of my mates to come get me.”

 

You sound pathetic, and you’re fully aware of it, but what more can you really do?

 

Joe looks you in the eye and says, “I’ll give you a lift, if you want.”

 

You glance at him and think that if Billy wasn’t a thing, he’s someone you’d consider chatting up.

 

“Yeah?” You run a hand through your hair. “You sure? Might be out of your way.”

 

“Probably, but I’ll survive. Where d’you live?”

 

You rattle off an address, and before you know it, you’re climbing into Joe’s car and clicking in your seat belt.

  
  
  
  


“Thanks,” You say as Joe pulls up by the side of your house. “You know, for being nice and all that.”

 

He grins and says, “Any time.”

 

You thank him again as you climb out of the car.

 

The hallway is dark as you unlock the door and step in. You wish you had one of those automatic light systems, because the shadowy reflections thrown around make you feel chilly inside, and are just another reminder of how lonely the house is; it didn’t used to matter because your mate was living with you, but now he’s moved to fucking Plymouth, which in itself is a mystery to you, because who willingly moves to _Plymouth?_

 

Before you flip the light switch, a flashing red light catches your eye through the open living room door. You furrow your eyebrows, and turn on the light. The living room is pitch black as well, so you illuminate every lamp in the area, and walk over to the landline.

 

It’s a wonder that you even know what the red light even means, considering no one ever calls the house, let alone leaves a voicemail. Yet, here you are, picking up the phone and pressing it to your ear.

 

_You have one new voicemail. To listen, press 3. To delete, press-_

 

Click.

 

_Hey Ollie, it’s Gos. You probably think someone's died or something, but your mobile was off and i couldn’t- anyway sorry. It’s just that Billy’s turned up and he looks well depressed, and I don’t think it was the match, because you didn’t lose, you drew, yeah? He hasn’t told me anything yet, but I think you might of caused somethin’. Not personal, just he seems fucked up,and he’s only like this when you’ve done some shit like start a fist fight with Sammy. Just a bit worried here, that’s all. Also making sure you got home fine, because from what i’m getting is that Bill gave you lift in, and he was giving you lift back. Anyway, call me back, yeah?_

 

A long beep echos around the room.

 

_To listen again, press 3. To save, press 2. To delete, press 1._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -feel like theres too much going on here to make coherent notes but im gonna try 
> 
> -john-joe o'toole is a prick who we all rated when he played for us, despite him being borderline average, but then fucked off when we got relegated to the conference so we all hate him now
> 
> -ollie went on loan to mangotsfield in 2011 (big up the field its where i live n grew up!!!)
> 
> -portishead is a coastal town near bristol, where ollie grew up and its a bit of a shithole
> 
> -billys from swindon and played for them for a bit (im surprised he dont get more grief for it)
> 
> -jake gosling (aka my bby boi) played for us for two years then got sent out on loan a few times and whe i wrote this he was still on loan at forest green
> 
> -matty taylor joined bristol city on 31st january and became the biggest cunt in bristol, replacing o'toole
> 
> -rochdale away was genuinely the first away game we hadn't lost since october
> 
> -port vale away was a banging away day full of banter even if we didnt win
> 
> -ellis made the shittest pass ever vs scunthorpe and just thinking about it makes me want to die
> 
> \- the 2nd part will come soon i promise
> 
> xx eve
> 
> tumblr: [stoneims](http://stoneims.tumblr.com/)


	2. it's never the same

**28th February 2017**  
**Bolton, Greater Manchester**  
**vs Bolton Wanderers**

 

  
2 years ago to the day: Gateshead away. An uneventful day, but a successful end to a successful month. You think about Ellis’s goal, dinked straight over the keeper, and Manse kissing JJ O’Donnell. You think about the stand of fans at one end, singing Irene. You think about the games that took you there, and the games that let you escape, and you realise exactly just how this football club has never died.

 

 

You drive to the Mem alone at 2 in the afternoon, because you haven’t even heard from Billy since Scunthorpe, let alone seen him. He’s been taking camp at Gosling’s, you’re assuming, because when you knocked on his door on Sunday night, hungover and annoyed, no one answered and the windows were dark.

It’s confusing and irritating all at once, because you’ve clearly done something wrong, but you haven’t got a single clue what. It’s not like all the other times you’ve fought, when the situation is blindingly clear, and the only problem is that one of you is too stubborn to admit that they were wrong (and to be completely honest that’s usually you), when the argument lasts two days at most, and before you know it, you’re snogging at the back of the empty changing room.

You tried to call Gos again, but he told you to fuck off, and then hung up. Billy has no doubt given him insider information, which to you is complete bullshit, especially since they’re both blanking you, because you can’t fix anything if you don’t know what you’ve broken.

And as for Billy? You’re certain he’s turned his phone off, because whenever you call him, the phone doesn’t even get a chance to ring.

 

 

 

Only a few of the lads are here, and you sigh with some semblance of relief; you’ll get a decent pick of seats and won’t have to be forced into a row with Harris. (You like the guy, don’t get it wrong, but you can hardly understand a word he says).

Fortunately for you, Billy doesn’t appear to have arrived yet; you’re not sure if you have the words nor the energy to apologise for- what?

(You’ll have to deal with it eventually, whatever it is, even if he avoids you on the coach, even if he doesn’t want to talk to you.)

You pull into a space as far away from the coach as possible; you don’t trust the driver, not since he reversed into that lamp-post.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and the sky is already tainting itself grey. You don’t like late kick offs one bit. It’s the way the moonlight reflects off the damp grass, and the foggy air hangs between the players. The stands are quieter too, eerily so, as if the supporters don’t want to break the stillness that the dark emits. It’s never the rowdy, thrumming atmosphere that only occurs at 3 o’clock inside the Mem.

It will be the Macron Stadium, however.

And that terrifies you a bit, just how far you’ve come.

 

 

You’ve fallen asleep even before everyone’s arrived, and by the time someone decides to wake you up, you’re passing through Birmingham; a mist hangs over the dull metal railings that run along the road and, although it isn’t evening yet, the day still holds a darkness that makes you shiver. Linesy claps the back of your head through the seats, and says, rather loudly, “Wake the fuck up, Clarkey!” then falls back laughing.

You blink slowly, your eyes not yet adjusted to the bright lights of the coach. The seat next to you has been left empty, which isn’t such a surprise really; you purposely left your bag there and even these boys aren’t thick enough to not recognise the signals. It’s not that you would mind if someone sat down next to you (there are plenty of people that wouldn’t even phase you), it’s just easier to put everyone off and not risk it (at this moment, it’s Billy that you’re worried about).

A pounding resonates behind your eyes, and suddenly everything feels wrong. It’s a migraine (at least you think it is) and you can’t quite shake the dizziness that’s making your hands shake and your eyes blur. It’s painful and exhausting, and you hate it with every fibre of your being, but you’re used to it. This has happened too many times to be considered healthy, and Billy tried to force you into a doctor’s appointment once, but when he rang up to book, the doctor’s were typically shite, and he hung up.

You groan and rub your forehead.

“You alright Ol?” Linesy leans into the aisle and peers around the seats. “Sound like you’ve been punched lad.”

You glance over through hooded eyes and mutter something like: “Just a ‘eadache, d’worry.”

Linesy disappears back around the seat and there is an indecipherable chatter behind you (potentially containing the words: migraine, paracetamol, not strong enough, and get Bill.)

You don’t put two and two together.

It hurts to think, and you all but black out.

 

 

You come around before you open your eyes, and all you can think is: please don’t bench me, this is Bolton and i have to play, i have to.

Still, you can’t think of anything worse than running around a cold pitch in February, with your head about to split open and Billy next to you, hating you.

But you sit up.

You rummage in your bag and take out migraine tablets and a bottle of water.

You take one more than is recommended and you can feel the capsules in the back of your throat. The sensation makes you nauseous, so you have another sip of water and breathe in, and then out.

It’s not enough, but it’s all you can do.

 

 

Linesy appears around the seats once more, 45 minutes until you arrive in Bolton. It’s not as irritating as it usually would be, because it’s getting lonely without Billy next to you, and your phone can only entertain you for so long. You’ve gotten through 2 and half of Bolton’s last games, and gone four hours back on twitter; you need a break.

“You alright now la?” He’s smiling wickedly, like he knows something you don’t.

“Yeah?” It’s not quite an answer, and you don’t know what Linesy trying to get out of you.

“I bet you are.” He’s grinning now, wide and knowing. “I’m betting you feel great.”

“What the fuck you on about?” You don’t mean to snap, but Linesy doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t apologise.

A laugh echoes from behind you. Tom Lockyer sticks his head marginally through the gap between the seats. How he manages that, you don’t know.

“He’s on about Bill, Ol.”

You narrow your eyes, twist round. “What about him?”

Linesy chuckles. “Fucking hell Clarkey. He came over and sat next ta you for like ten.”

“You were awake, weren’t you? He was all apologetic and shit. Pretty sure he kissed you at some point.” Locks grins, or at least you think he did.

Your mind goes blank and the throbbing pain is back.

“You alright Ollie?” Locks peers at you, concern flooding his voice. “You haven’t had a fight or something, yeah?”

Ever the romantic.

You swallow and force a grin onto your face. “Course we haven’t Locks. Headache and all, yeah? Just blanked for a minute. D’worry about it.”

 

 

The Macron Stadium isn’t the biggest stadium you’ve played at, but it’s not far off.

And you’d never admit it out loud, but you secretly think that it is much more impressive than Stamford Bridge. Chelsea was brilliant, and heart-thumping, mind-racing, fans chanting: beautiful.

But it was the EFL Cup, and this is the league, far more important.

 

 

Billy’s waiting by the door of the coach when you step out.

Before you have time to react, throw a punch, run away, anything, he grabs your arm, gently but firmly, and pulls you around the side of the vehicle where no one can see you.

You gulp down your unease and say, “Not bringing me round here to kill me, are you? Would do wonders for your public image, mind.”

Billy has a lump in a throat, and he somehow manages to make himself look smaller than you, if that’s even possible.

“Shut up.” He says half-heartedly, and you expect him to follow that up with something, but he doesn’t.

So you do instead.

“What’s this about Bill?” You say, exhausted. “Really. All of this, what is it?”

He doesn’t answer, instead brings his hand up to his mouth to chew on his nails.

You push his hand down carefully.

“If it’s something i’ve done, tell me. Please.” You whisper this, because Billy looks like any sudden movement could spook him. “And if it’s something you’ve done, we can sort it out yeah?”

The slouch of Billy’s shoulders and the tightness that he grips his bag with suggest that the latter is true.

It’s not something you’ve really considered in the past few days, mainly because it had only really happened once before, because it was always your fault.

“I.. I am sorry.” He stutters, and you know that someone will come looking for you soon.

“Bill, I dunno what’s happened. Tell me cause we can can sort it and - ”

“I slept with Jake.” He murmurs, head down.

You take a step back. “Oh.”

“I’m so sorry Ol. I was gonna tell you, but then we drew with Scunthorpe and I was annoyed so I drove to Nailsworth and Gos was there, like he was before and I’m sorry that he lied in that voicemail and I’m sorry for cheating, I’m just so, so sorry.”

“How many times?” You say, voice cold, cheeks flushed.

Billy swallows. “Three, but-”

You twist on your heels and walk away.

 

 

You put all of your anger into your performance and it nearly comes off, you so nearly win, should be up by at least two, three goals by half-time.

But you’re not, because all the shots bottle at the last second and no matter how many you create, they all fizzle out. You hate it so much, because you know you’ve been the better team, you know that you should be winning.

It’s one of those games when nothing goes right, when everything’s just an inch off target.

(It feels like Mansfield and it feels like Dagenham and it feels like Wembley, and even though this game is nowhere near as important, it hurts just as much.)

You catch glimpses of Billy all through the match, running up the wing, sweaty and trying just as hard as every other player on the pitch.

He doesn’t try to talk to you at half-time, and you’re grateful; he’s always known exactly what you want, although maybe he doesn’t anymore.

You don’t think about it while you’re playing, not much anyway, but it’s niggling away at the back of your head, like a virus. Your eyes burn with the wind (and maybe the lingering salty tears), and none of this is new, not really, not to you.

The match isn’t new, and the cheating isn’t new.

(It’s different, maybe, because it’s Billy this time, not Lindsey, or Tom, or the other one whose name you have forgotten since. But you know how to treat your heart now, how to not make this worse and fuck yourself over.)

You wonder if this was inevitable.

 

 

Byron Moore is the last person anyone expects to score, but here he is latching onto Billy’s through ball, and slotting the ball into the far side of the net.

It’s the least you deserve, and it’s still not enough. It’s not winning, but it should be.

 

 

**4th March 2017**  
**Oxford, Oxfordshire**  
**vs Oxford United**

 

Your hands shake on the coach to Oxford, all the way up the M4, the whole hour and three quarters. James keeps throwing you concerned looks from the corner of his eye; you ignore him in favour of staring out of the window into the fields surrounding the motorway.

(You know that he’s sat next to you because the boys are worried that you’ll overdose on painkillers if you’re left alone. Their words, not yours.

Whether they have reason to is completely lost to you. You’ve trained hard during the week, but no more or less than usual. The only difference is: Billy-and-Ollie aren’t talking.)

You honestly don’t think that you are being even remotely obvious with your self-diagnosed ‘heart-break’, but as every time Luke offers to take you to Costa to ‘talk’ over the past three days goes by, you start to worry that you are becoming less apt at hiding your emotions than you were two months ago.

 

 

Oxford is cloudy and cold, and nothing like the warmed-through Bristol you’ve left behind. It’s hardly the cobbled streets and church spires that all the picture show when you google ‘Oxford’, but it is the Kassam Stadium, equipped with three stands, and a gaping hole behind the goal looking straight onto the car park.

You can hear the rousing tunes of Bristol Rovers singing from the left side of the North Stand. It is the home support replicated, and placed into Oxfordshire, where it will thrive and deafen the stands of yellow.

Never has an away game felt so real and vivid, at least not since Forest Green and the semi-finals.

 

 

  
Oxford is:

  
(gunmetal sky-)

(universities-)

  
-your shot firing in at a tight angle, and blue-blue-blue-white, forgetting about Jake and Nailsworth and every time you didn’t know, Billy throwing an arm around your shoulder and you leaning in, like it was just another goal.

  
Oxford is:

(bodin? no-)

-Stuart Sinclair shooting low, and Billy acting as a barrier between him and the defence, on course for the first away win since October.

Oxford is:

(losing?)

(no? drawing?)

-winning breathlessly after a string of six draws, not feeling the stabbing pain in your fast-beating heart that has been paining you for the past few weeks, feeling alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -right so i've been taking ages to write this so i'm jus posting what i've written so far
> 
> -it was actually gateshead at home [lee mansell kissed jj o'donnell](https://youtu.be/nXjeYRMp6d8) to 'ease the tension' but i wanted to mention it cos it's funny as
> 
> -nailsworth is where forest greens based, which is where jake gosling played at the time
> 
> -oxfords kassam stadiums odd as fuck it only has three stands
> 
> xx eve
> 
> tumblr: [jordpickford](%E2%80%9Djordpickford.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


End file.
